Traditional Culture Encyclopedia - Weather inquiry - Prose丨Chen Yuanwu: Things on Earth

Prose丨Chen Yuanwu: Things on Earth

Things on the Earth

Text丨Chen Yuanwu

Many times, we forget the land, the place covered by cement, It almost becomes a barrier between us and the earth. The ground I am standing on is covered with thick cement, bricks or slates, which have been carefully polished and cut into various shapes. In the city, my feet can hardly touch the soil. However, there is no lack of filth and smoke in the city. In the early winter, the sky gradually lost its moisture, and the blue seemed to be sucked away by the dust haze, turning into a deathly gray. I saw the shadow of the days on the pigeon's feathers, and the dust had soaked its black pupils into cataract-like turbidity. The pigeon is getting fat due to sufficient food. It does not need to fly in the sky all day long. Its wings have lost the endurance for long-distance flying. It is even unwilling to fly a few more times between buildings to make the sky more flexible. Fat pigeons chattered boredly on the low trees in the community, followed by some equally bored sparrows competing for territory. Picking up food that has fallen everywhere on the ground. The food left by humans looks so pickled and greasy. Pigeons cannot eat other food on the earth, especially pigeons in cities. Apart from pet pigeons, they have a fixed diet. Feeds such as corn crumbs and millet sorghum, square pigeons have almost no such treatment. The pigeons I have met have all adapted to this kind of food without exception. On the roof of the community, someone would scatter grain to attract pigeons. More often than not, pigeons would fly over after eating from other places and chatter boredly, with monotonous and dull sounds. Streets and alleys are always shrouded in odors throughout the summer, and the high temperatures after the rainy season cause the fallen leaves of fermenting trees and the dust on the lawns to emit an unpleasant smell. The air was filled with smoke and dust from the subway station construction site. The screw elevators and buckets more than 20 meters high made a dull and continuous roar. The sound of mechanical impact was mixed with the wail of the earth tearing apart. People on the ground are walking like ants, and modern machinery is walking in the underground caves. Soon, the space of this city will undergo new changes - a structured city like a honeycomb will replace the current single flat city. As Brodsky said in his poem: "In the city we are traveling through, there is no longer any secret of space. The land has escaped and sneaked into deeper depths. We are walking like insects, unable to see the horizon." ”

The solidification and hardness of urban land prevents rainwater from returning to the earth. Therefore, a slightly heavier rain turns the streets into rivers, but we have failed to learn the ability of fish. Sometimes I look at the broken down cars in knee-deep water scattered everywhere, with yellow or red lights flashing desperately, and I feel an inexplicable sense of guilt - it is we who have turned our lives into a The sudden arrival of water in the impenetrable pond turns all happiness into pain. The car struggled in the stagnant water like a drowned beetle, and the world became blurry in the chaotic rain and fog. Outside the windowpane is the world of water, inside the windowpane is the world of darkness, so cramped and small that it can only accommodate the rapid breathing of one's own soul. The trees swayed in the wind and rain, helpless yet strong. Trees without support were broken or fell, and were uprooted. The rain lashed every square centimeter of the city. The streets and alleys in the wind and rain looked so unfamiliar, and you couldn't even see where the earth was. Lightning in the distance instantly illuminated the void of the city, and the gray, pale, and unidentifiable sky finally lit up, flashing past like a flame or a blade. But this is a living phenomenon after all, and there is no reference point other than this. "The kind of place where softness is everywhere is often a hotbed of life, but there are no flowers on the rocks." We live among the rocks, we are weeds of despair.

Solar terms are the awesome laws of time division. At the beginning of spring, the earth is still dead. On the warm slopes slightly facing the sun, thin new buds are already blooming on the treetops. Deep in the park, mole crickets suddenly wake up and chirp occasionally. No changes can be seen on the trees in the neighborhood. They have been beaten to death by the winter wind. Most of their leaves are withered and yellow, covered with thick dust, while the deciduous trees look sparse and orderly. Winter in the south always seems a bit unserious, like a continuation of autumn or a long prelude to spring. The changes in frost and snow are not obvious. The biting wind makes people feel that this is winter, but suddenly, it is the beginning of spring. The sun rose earlier, and a bright light suddenly flashed from the buildings in the southeast corner. A trace of warmth spread like a wave in an instant. In the air of the block, the gray haze gradually dispersed, and the chaotic dust and The smoke is blown away by the wind, and the slightly moist wind makes people feel uplifted. Spring in the South also arrives inconspicuously. The words on the calendar remind me that today is the beginning of spring. "The first east wind thaws, the second time the crickets begin to flutter, and the third time the fish catches the ice." The east wind came clearly, and the flowers and plants on the east window began to sway, as if to celebrate the occurrence of an event, and the mole crickets began to flutter, rubbing their wings and feathers, At night, the sound of insects sounded softly, gradually forming a sea of ??insect sounds. Katydids, yellowflies, and horseflies emerged from their burrows one after another. A yellow bamboo fly came out of the flowerpot. With a winter-weary look, it timidly climbed to the branches of lemon flowers and tried to flap its numb wings. The voice is crisp and shy, and only occasionally does it have a bright and amazing voice. When the sun shines on the balcony, it has disappeared. The grass in the flowerpot also began to grow, and clovers gathered in clusters, occupying the vacant soil surface.

Yeats's poem: "Clovers crowd the paths, and the spring knocks down the acorns and makes them its companions." The year before last, I went to Delft, the Netherlands, where my daughter studied. It was a small, peaceful village dotted with rivers. Quiet and with a small population, people in the Netherlands love nature, flowers and green trees. Therefore, although it is close to the sea, strong winds of level 7 or above often blow, and the terrain here is low-lying. The river water is driven by windmills and flows up and down into the main drainage and irrigation canal leading to the North Sea. The houses in Delft, except for churches, are basically Nordic three- or four-story buildings with towering roofs. The streets are paved with black and gray stone bricks, leaving gaps where soil and grass can be seen. In spring, grass can be seen emerging from the gaps at any time and growing randomly into the landscape. Cleaners usually do not pull out these weeds, except on important streets. In addition, we always try to maintain the most original natural state. The water in the river is not very clear, but it is very clean. Citizens often hold various activities. When Midsummer Festival comes, in addition to carnivals of music and dance, there are swimming competitions in the river. Men and women of all colors, regardless of age, can participate. On the river bank, there are Dutch and Germanic people wearing medieval costumes, dancing the cha cha or foxtrot. Men dressed as waiters walked around the crowd holding beer mugs, serving delicious fresh beer. At noon, I took a nap on a chair facing the river on the street. Under the shade of the trees, the cool breeze blew. I felt that the summer here was a bit dreamy, like the spring in Fuzhou. The sea breeze suddenly became strong, and there would usually be a shower in the afternoon. But that day it suddenly became overcast, the wind blew violently, and the river gushed as if it were boiling. The rain fell like a thunderstorm in Fuzhou, with white arrows hitting the ground, the grass blades shaking and the leaves dancing. Most of the trees here are plane trees and oak trees, and some are beech and birch trees. They all grow into umbrella shapes, covering the sky with huge shade. There are few trees near the Dutch church, only flower beds. The square is outside the main entrance of the church. Sliding past it, there is a small market, a coffee bar or a small circular stage for citizen activities.

From time to time, I encounter wild ducks lining up by the river and walking calmly across the street. At this time, all people, cars, and even trains must stop and give way to them. Wild ducks have almost no worries here. There are no natural predators, no hawks or sea eagles, no shotguns or hunting nets, and no poisonous baits or traps. Seagulls play the role of robbers from time to time, especially when citizens are carrying fresh fish and seafood they have just bought from the supermarket. They should pay attention to robbers who suddenly rush down from the sky. Those Arctic gray-backed gulls are extremely powerful and often come with fish and bags. Take it away and it will make you break out in a cold sweat. It flaps its wings triumphantly, passes quickly over your head, and flies into the distance. My daughter once encountered a couple of squirrels. They took a fancy to the pine nut toast in her hand. The aroma made the squirrels anxious, so they jumped on her bicycle, tore off a large piece of bread, and then ran away quickly. My daughter took a photo of the funny appearance of the squirrel couple. In a moment, we can see how equal and intimate the relationship between local animals and people is. Most bridges in the Netherlands are movable bridges. They do not have high spans and are flush with the road surface. However, in the middle of the bridge is a large turntable that can rotate 90 degrees. When a ship passes by, the bridge will turn along the direction of the river, allowing the Make a way for ships to pass. And all the cars and people will wait patiently at the bridge. Everything is slow and time flows here leisurely. You can hardly see anyone honking the horn in a hurry to urge the car in front. Bicycles are the main form of transportation here. Usually, in their free time at work, the comfortable Dutch ride bicycles along the narrow path of the dam, listening to music, or throwing food in their hands to the gulls from time to time, but this is only allowed by law. of feeding food. The dam is a structure with solid steel and cement walls, but the surface is a box of soil with flowers and plants planted there. The water quality in the Netherlands is relatively salty, and only salt-tolerant aquatic plants can grow in this soil box. There are gray thistle and mint, as well as parsley and verbena. Inside the dam is a field of sunflowers, which are also salt-tolerant plants. Outside the wild clover isolation zone, there is regular farmland. It is all mechanized factory-style production, with fresh cut flowers and common plants such as potatoes, chicory and celery. In some places in South Holland, there are wheat fields.

In the beginning of summer, the climate here is still as cool as spring. After a burst of rain occasionally drifts in the sky, the clouds disperse, eye-catchingly white like cotton, and the sky has been wiped as clear as crystal. , that kind of blue is the most primitive color of nature. I was familiar with this kind of blue when I was a child, but now, the summer sky is always filled with a layer of gray substance, which always discounts that kind of blue.

Three

The beginning of autumn in the south always comes quietly in an inexplicable silence. The changes in solar terms are not obvious. The only change is that the shadow of the sun moves southward, and the shady places There is some coolness, although it is not obvious, but it is no longer the dull and hot weather in summer. The branches will be full of Lingxiao flowers, as well as Milan or Guri incense, and the big-leaved banyan tree will occasionally sprout new buds, making this early autumn ambiguous. In the countryside, this is the time to start making rice wine. The rice is harvested and ground into rice, and the fragrance of rice wafts far away in the streets and alleys of the countryside. The brewing of winter wine is an important item on the agenda. New rice needs to be exposed to the hot sun for several days until the rice shrinks into a transparent jade shape, and then sifted in a mill for several hours to let all the rice germs fall off. The rice is simply like a jade carving, with every grain transparent and lovely. .

The rice is washed clean in a bucket, steamed in a steamer, then poured into a brewing vat for initial fermentation, and koji is added. After a night of fermentation, the rice balls gradually liquefy, and the rich aroma of koji overflows. It then undergoes two days of deep fermentation, sealing the vat mouth, sterilizing it in a steamer, and then placing it in a cool underground cellar until autumn. In the next few months, the rice koji in the tank continues to ferment, saccharify and convert into alcohol, and the koji turns into an orange-yellow wine color, until all the rice grains are completely transformed into liquid, leaving only a small amount of insoluble The substance settled at the bottom of the tank. In the dark basement, the wine felt the changes in yin and yang outside. The yin energy gradually grew and the yang energy gradually declined. On the day of the summer solstice, there will be a cry of a shrike outside the window. This bird is very sensitive to the changes of yin and yang. There are three signs of the summer solstice: the deer antlers are unwound, and the deer is a yang animal. When things are unearthed, they begin to sing when they sense the presence of yin; Pinellia ternata is born, and Pinellia ternata likes yin, and is born when it senses the presence of yin. At the beginning of autumn, there are three seasons again: the cool breeze arrives, the white dew falls, and the cold cocoons chirp. The air in the earth begins to cool, and then the west wind comes. The wind comes all day long, and you feel cool against your body. The rain becomes more and more, and dew grows on the grass and trees. The color is white, indicating that the autumn is gold. The cold aphids and chilling cicadas are small and purple, similar to the grasshopper, and are born in the summer. At the end, the hoarse voice is long and weak, as if helpless and nostalgic, and its voice is mostly sad and sad, which adds to the autumn mood.

In the eyes of the ancients, the shrike was an ominous bird, called the harpoon. "The Book of Songs·Bin Feng" states that the harpoon sings in July; Wucheng of the Yuan Dynasty said in "The Collection of the Seventy-Two Hours of the Moon Order" that: Cao Zijian's "Evil" "On Birds": Bai Lao sings in the fifth month, its sound is unpleasant, and its prey exposes the carcass, and the sound is unpleasant. The shrike is the most faithful messenger of the climate. It sings at the summer solstice and stops at the winter solstice. This bird lives alone, standing in the thorn bush. No matter what it catches, whether it is an insect, a frog or a snake, it hangs on the sharp thorns and exposes its corpse. No bird dares to approach it. In the vast fields of the countryside, shrike appear and disappear like shadows. They can't fly beyond the mountains and far away from the rivers and forests. Their screams are shrill and alert. Shrikes have also appeared in cities recently, and they are good at stealing the chicks of other birds for food. The uncle is the head, the laborer is the strength. The reason why rural people like it is because it is good at repelling sparrows. Shrikes are seen in the rice fields, and the sparrows fly far away. There are many pests on the fruit trees, including carabid beetles, borers, grubs and stingrays. It preys on even tiny fruit wasps, fruit beetles and scarabs as part of its diet. Rural people call them guest birds because they disappear in winter and spring. In autumn and winter, the fields become barren, and there are really not many birds and insects to hunt on the dry corn stalks, dry rice haystacks and open fields. The shrike was still busy until the winter solstice, when it gradually disappeared without a trace. Horton said in "Miscellaneous Theory of Birds": The existence of birds is actually another way of the existence of time. A world without birdsong would be terrible. Even if its sound is not pleasant, it reminds us how important certain times of the day are, just like the rooster's crow to mark the time. In winter, the fields finally return to tranquility, just like a person's winter rest of the year. The rice wine in the wine cellar has been brewed, and the Winter Festival starts with wine. In some mountain villages in northern Fujian, winter does not appear quietly. The aroma of wine reminds another way of the coming of winter. The aroma of wine is overflowing. Each family will send the wine to the village farm, pour it into a large barrel, and mix it into a kind of wine. Then each family will take the wine from the barrel. Back, put it on the side of the barn for people to taste, and the wine-grabbing festival is like a country carnival. On the burgundy ground, spilled wine juice flows, shining red like blood in the sun. In the aroma of the wine, the passion of the villagers is heating up until it boils.

Shrikes pass through my village/The seasons are torn and scattered like reed blossoms/What thoughts are as strong as wine? / I pick up the fallen leaves and want to return them to the earth / Like the ancient sacrificial ceremony / Use my blood or flesh as a ferment / Supply the earth

Red is the color of blood, the tear of autumn The gaping wounds are the shrike dismembering its prey, and the exposed depths of the flesh are the silent notes of the season. Therefore, the ancients called the solar terms seventy-two hours, which is an epic description. I believe that between every solar term, there are the silent and sneaking footsteps of the earth. Therefore, I am in awe of the red color of rice wine, and of rice wine itself, which is an ancient ritual and the lament of the season. When everything is no longer lush, when the autumn wind withers away all vitality, I remember and revere the process of it all, just like a shrike lamenting over the corpse of its prey.

Four

I respect all phenomena in life, including life and death. My father died of illness the year before last. On the night before his death, we stood around the bedside while he was half-lying with his pillow on his pillow. The hurried figure of death was in the room. I could feel its approach and its excited shouts and even dancing. It was looking forward to my father's last moments. My father was breathing heavily all the time. He seemed to want to say something. In fact, my father usually didn't like to talk much. He always stayed silent and watched TV alone, with an inexplicable smile on his face. My father suddenly let out a breath of relief, but never breathed in any more air. His hands softened and hung weakly on the edge of the bed, and his head also hung weakly and tilted to one side. The air in the room was also deathly solid. We were busy washing him, and his heart was still warm. I pressed my face against his heart, but there was no movement. My father fell asleep. He was too tired and would never wake up. Such a farewell seems very cruel, but I know that everyone has such moments. I held my father's body and asked my sister to wipe it. Then I put on the shroud and let my father lie down. He was no longer tormented by the pain and did not need to struggle with difficult breathing. He followed the god of death and left without a sound of footsteps. Like a gust of wind.

When I took over the urn, my heart suddenly twitched, heavily, my vision turned black, and I almost staggered. My father turned into such a pile of bones, which looked as beige as ivory under the light, with a soft glow. of light. I gently covered myself with the brocade quilt and closed the altar lid. I carried the urn and walked to the funeral carriage.

The sky is still blue and the sun is dazzling, stinging my skin. I hugged my father's ashes tightly. It still had the residual warmth after the flames. The road up the mountain is so rugged, with thorns piercing my body. I feel that the father in my arms is very kind. He is still sleeping, like a baby. He is going back, to the earth. That is his eternal destination, and he will be. It is my eternal destination. Later one day, I went to Guling with my friends and found a coffin stone, called the coffin stone platform. He laughed and said that life is so peaceful, and death should be returned to the stone platform. He regarded death as a sacrificial ceremony to the earth. I thought of Serdar Gyatso in Ganzi. I attended the entire funeral of his uncle. His uncle was tied into a white pillar. On the way home after being incinerated, we recited mantras and looked at the gurgling river at the bottom of the crooked valley on the donkey cart, as well as the silhouette of an eagle that appeared from time to time on the edge of the steep cliff. Prayer flags fluttered in the wind. The earth is so quiet that you can even hear the crisp sound of stones flying after being crushed.

We sat on the grass and sprinkled highland barley flour and dalong into the air. The sound of chanting was like the buzzing mountain wind. The white urn was placed behind the mysterious altar, which was another village of their ancestors. This has almost the same meaning as our back mountain, which is the village where our ancestors reunited again. Under the dark blue sky, we became part of the rocks in the sunshine. After silence, we said goodbye to them. The mountain wind is blowing, and on the rocks that have lost water for many years, there are more traces of tears we shed just now. The earth stretches into the distance, endlessly. Every time I touch the chest of the earth, I seem to be whispering to a great mother. That is where everyone comes from, where all things come from, and it will also be where we and all things go.

All things are soft/deep into the earth/happen without a reason/just like disappearing without a reason/no need to explain/hope for an answer/no, everything is empty/all life and all death/are equally meaningless Meaningless

I thought of a pottery xun, a musical instrument made of clay, which could turn my breath into sound, and it didn’t matter if I was vomiting, muttering or laughing. I want to sing a long song and blow the pottery xun for a long time.

Chen Yuanwu: Writer. His works can be found in "October", "Selected Chinese Literature", "Mountain Flowers", "Tianya", "Selected Prose", "Prose", "Guangzhou Literature and Art", and "Works". It has been included in annual prose anthologies many times, and has won awards such as the Sun Li Prose Award.